Elizabeth Bishop

(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979 / Worcester, Massachusetts)

Elizabeth Bishop Poems

1. Faustina, or Rock Roses 4/24/2015
2. Crusoe in England 12/11/2015
3. View Of The Capitol From The Library Of Congress 1/3/2003
4. Lines Written In The Fannie Farmer Cookbook 1/13/2003
5. Visits To St Elizabeths 1/3/2003
6. Trouvée 1/3/2003
7. While Someone Telephones 1/3/2003
8. The Man-Moth 1/3/2003
9. Sonnet 1/3/2003
10. Cirque D'Hiver 1/13/2003
11. Manuelzinho 1/1/2004
12. Cape Breton 1/13/2003
13. Roosters 1/3/2003
14. Giant Snail 1/13/2003
15. Songs For A Colored Singer 1/3/2003
16. Suicide Of A Moderate Dictator 2/7/2012
17. Strayed Crab 1/3/2003
18. The Burglar Of Babylon 1/13/2003
19. O Breath 1/3/2003
20. Squatter's Children 1/3/2003
21. The Colder The Air 1/13/2003
22. Casabianca 1/3/2003
23. Large Bad Picture 1/3/2003
24. Arrival At Santos 1/13/2003
25. Sonnet (1979) 1/13/2003
26. To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash 1/3/2003
27. Giant Toad 1/13/2003
28. Little Exercise 1/13/2003
29. The Weed 1/3/2003
30. Intimate, Low-Voiced, Delicate Things 11/13/2013
31. Sonnet (1928) 1/13/2003
32. Sleeping On The Ceiling 1/3/2003
33. Song For The Rainy Season 1/3/2003
34. Seascape 1/3/2003
35. Invitation To Miss Marianne Moore 1/3/2003
36. The Unbeliever 1/3/2003
37. Chemin De Fer 1/13/2003
38. Rain Towards Morning 1/3/2003
39. At The Fishhouses 1/3/2003
40. The Imaginary Iceberg 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ...

Read the full of One Art

Love Lies Sleeping

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare

[Hata Bildir]